For the most part, I don’t bother with any of that Spanx bullshit — I just make people deal with my fat. But this is delightful, and that IS a bomb-ass Princess-grade dress.

(For the record, I would wear the SPECIALEST of undergarments for Stephen Colbert once he takes over. And then I would just sit there in my fancy Underoos while he read to me from Tolkien novels, because his wife is adorable and I couldn’t/wouldn’t homewreck that.)

Just spoonful of sugar helps the childhood trauma go down…

Thirty minutes into Saving Mr. Banks, it seems to be about an uptight, controlling spinster with daddy issues.

Well! ‘Bout damn time! That’s my kind of Disney Princess. Proceed.

Presenting Her Highness, Princess Crankypants

Oh. Well, apparently I have deep-seated issues with being called “Princess” by a romantic prospect. Gotta love a fun and unexpected (funexpected?) fit of rage.

Maybe I’m just bitter that I don’t have a tiara and a big, frilly dress. Or maybe my dad calls me Princess, so it’s creepy. (See also: I’m no longer an 8-year-old girl, and I’m pretty fuck far from a princess.)